Mr. Rawat had already left with the driver, but at Mrs. Rawat's gentle request, Aarav and Ayan stayed behind.
The dining table still gleamed with half-emptied dishes and the warm glow of overhead lamps. Laughter lingered in the air, the kind that softens even the quietest corners of a room.
Mrs. Rawat's hand drifted to the bouquet resting on the table, fingertips brushing over the petals. Her smile dimmed slightly.
"I only wish my other son were here too."
A silence threatened—until Vihan leaned forward, chin propped on his palm, a playful spark in his eyes. "Don't worry, Maa. Brother Aarav will give you a chance to count Ayan as your son too."
A sharp smack under the table—Karan's knee against his thigh—made him wince. Too late. Every gaze had shifted to their mother.
Her face was unreadable for a moment, the air taut. Then—her shoulders shook, and a sudden, lilting chuckle slipped free. "Then make sure you do it quickly."
Every head turned. The words were light, but their weight dropped heavy. Acceptance—just like that?
Vihan blinked, voice cracking. "You're… okay with this, Maa?"
"Of course," she said smoothly, eyes warm. "I trust my son's heart. Right, Senior Karan?"
Karan stiffened, caught mid-sip of water. The tips of his ears flushed crimson. He set the glass down too quickly, avoiding her gaze.
Aarav smirked across the table while Ayan tried—and failed—to hide his widened eyes.
Vihan's frown deepened. "Why are you asking Senior?"
"Ask that to your senior," she replied, calm as if stating fact.
Before Vihan could protest, a hand slid over his beneath the table. Karan's—firm, steady, reassuring.
Heat shot up Vihan's neck. His pulse stuttered, his composure cracking.
Aarav cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair. "But Maa… since you know everything, how long have you known?"
Her lips curved knowingly. "The day Karan dropped Vihan home. I knew then—Aarav and Abhi would never trust just anyone with their baby brother."
Vihan's jaw dropped. "W-Wait… what?"
Karan chuckled, giving his hand a squeeze. "Face it, Junior. She figured me out before you did."
Laughter erupted around the table. Vihan groaned, dragging his hands over his face, while Karan only leaned back with a victorious smirk.
The warmth of acceptance lingered, wrapping the night in certainty.
---
[Singh Mansion—Arun's Room]
The night lay still outside, moonlight spilling pale through the curtains. Arun and Abhi lay curled together in bed, breaths slow and steady.
But something stirred. A faint shift in the air, a murmur against the silence.
Arun's eyes opened. He held still, listening—low voices, uneven footsteps. Too many.
Danger.
He glanced at Abhi's sleeping face, softened by the faint light. Carefully, he drew the blanket higher over him, fingers brushing against Abhi's cheek for a lingering moment. Then he slipped free, rising with the silence of a shadow.
The front door gaped open when he reached it. A chill swept his spine. They were already inside.
Masked men, weapons gleaming. The floor was scattered with bodies of intruders already downed. His staff knelt battered and bloodied, defiance burning still in their swollen faces.
Two men began climbing the stairs.
Arun moved swiftly into the nearest room, melting into darkness.
The door creaked. The first man entered—Arun's hand shot out, slamming his head against the frame with a sickening crack. The body slumped. The second froze in fear, but one blow ended him too.
Downstairs, the others stiffened. Two more ascended. Their fate was the same.
…
The four who remained glanced at each other, unease creeping in.
"Come down, or they all die," the leader barked, pressing his gun to a servant's temple.
Silence. Then—slow, deliberate footsteps from above.
Arun appeared at the top of the staircase. Broad shoulders, unshaken gaze. His very presence pressed down on the room like iron.
He descended halfway, eyes flicking to his wounded staff. "Let them go. I'll come with you." His voice cut sharp, no space for doubt.
The barrel of a gun met his forehead. "You're coming with us."
"I will—if they're unharmed."
A breath stretched.
Then—three gunshots shattered the silence. Quick. Precise.
Bodies fell.
The last gunman stumbled back, eyes wide. His hands shook.
Another set of footsteps descended, unhurried.
Abhi emerged. Hair tousled, shirt loose around his shoulders, but his eyes—dark, lethal. The softness everyone knew was gone.
The staff stared, stunned.
Abhi's gaze cut to the lone survivor. His voice, calm and cold: "His life belongs to me. No one else has the right to end it."
He pulled the trigger. The body hit the ground.
Silence.
Arun exhaled, steady—but his mind clung to Abhi's words, their weight, their unpredictability.
From the doorway, a smooth voice curled into the room. "Seems like you don't need me anymore."
Annaya leaned lazily against the frame, smirk curving her lips. Her gaze slid to Abhi—curious, unshaken.
Abhi's eyes flicked to her once, irritation flashing, before he shoved his gun into Arun's hand.
"I'm going back to the room." His voice was clipped, shadowed by something sharper.
Arun caught the flicker of anger in his eyes before he vanished upstairs.
Annaya's people moved quickly—dragging bodies, tending wounds, restoring order. But the stench of blood lingered.
"You should've listened," Annaya said, folding her arms. "I warned you and Papa not to strip the main security."
Arun pinched the bridge of his nose, fatigue pressing in. "We can't let Ayan face this. You know his condition."
Her brow arched. "And you think you can shield him from everything?"
The silence that followed was heavier than gunfire.
Then her lips curled in a half-smile. "Anyway… I should leave. Your boy didn't look too thrilled to see me."
Arun's lips twitched, a faint smile breaking despite the weight in his chest.
…
[Later—Arun's Room]
The room was dim again, the faint orange glow of the bedside lamp softening the edges.
Abhi sat curled on the bed, blanket pulled high, arms tucked close. His cheeks puffed slightly, lips pressed into a sulky pout. Every so often, his gaze darted to the door. Waiting.
The latch clicked.
Abhi's head snapped up. Arun stepped in, his eyes catching Abhi's immediately. His mouth tugged faintly upward.
He sat beside him, the mattress dipping. "You're not going to sleep?"
Abhi turned away, voice sharp but muffled by the blanket. "You could've woken me if you needed help. Why call Annaya?"
Arun tilted his head, amused. "So that's why you're upset?"
Abhi huffed, tugging the blanket tighter. "Why am I even asking? She's your girlfriend, after all…"
A quiet laugh rumbled from Arun's chest. He leaned closer, lips over Abhi's ears. His whisper grazed his ear: "She's not my girlfriend. And being jealous won't help."
Abhi's fingers curled on the blanket, heat rising up his neck. He turned, "Who's jealo—" The protest died on his tongue.
Arun's face was too close. Inches. The air between them charged.
Arun leaned in, slow, steady. Abhi's hand shot up, pressing against his lips.
Arun stilled, searching his eyes. Concern flickered—am I pushing too far?
Abhi's voice trembled, but his question pierced. "So you'd allow just anyone to call herself your girlfriend?"
Arun's gaze eased, and he caught his wrist gently, lowering it—but not letting go. His thumb traced slow circles on Abhi's skin.
"I never said she is mine. I never let just anyone live with me. Share my room. My bed. Kiss." His gaze deepened. "I don't want just anyone, Abhi."
Abhi's chest tightened, his throat dry. His hand twitched in Arun's hold, betraying him.
"Sleep already," he muttered weakly, turning his face away. "Unless you want to sleep on the floor."
Arun only smiled. Sliding down beside him, he slipped an arm around Abhi's waist. His warmth pressed close, breaths mingling in the quiet.
Abhi tensed, then slowly eased, his breathing falling in rhythm. He didn't pull away.
His silence was its own answer.
---
[Elsewhere—A Dark Room]
The space was drenched in shadow, lit only by the cold glow of monitors. A high-backed chair held a solitary figure, still as stone.
Each screen replayed carnage: a café siege, servants bloodied on marble floors. But one image stilled the man.
Abhi.
Captured mid-fight, gun steady, eyes sharp as blades. No hesitation. No fear.
The man leaned forward, features hidden in shadow. His lips curved faintly. "Interesting…"
With a flick, the central screen sharpened, Abhi's face filling the glow. Dark eyes, lethal calm, a quiet authority carved into his stance.
The man studied him. Memorized him.
Finally, his voice broke the silence—low, deliberate. "It's time to change the plan."